


Staged

by citizenjess (givehimonemore)



Category: Metalocalypse
Genre: M/M, season three
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-12-23
Updated: 2009-12-23
Packaged: 2017-10-05 02:01:45
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,646
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/36574
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/givehimonemore/pseuds/citizenjess
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Nathan copes with Charles' departure in stages; Charles contemplates his next move.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Staged

**Author's Note:**

  * For [elanorofcastile](https://archiveofourown.org/users/elanorofcastile/gifts).



> I picked this up as a pinch-hitter story. The recipient wanted Charles/Nathan slash, post-season two, specifically dealing with how they both coped with being apart for nine months. Hope you enjoy!

The first few days after the attack, it's easy enough not to think about the fact that Charles isn't there. He saw the body, sure; in the back of his mind, he comprehends what has happened. At the same time, there's a lot to recoup, to consider, to discuss. Charles is usually in the background anyways, quietly fixing things; it's easy enough, for a little while, at least to pretend that he's doing that now.

It's worse at night. Nathan's not good at occupying himself; he never has been. He and the other guys complain off and on about how much time they're forced to spend together, but Nathan is secretly relieved for their presence more often than not. Still, in the absence of many of the creature comforts they've come to expect at Mordhaus due to the recent fire and structure destruction - their hot tub, for one thing - the alternative, talking, seems almost unbearable. Pickles is probably the most articulate of the five; even then, the drummer is fairly tight-lipped, post-attack. At one point, Nathan can hear him mumble something to Skwisgaar: "- didn't expect to live. What now, dood, you know?"

Whenever Nathan couldn't sleep, he would meander into Charles' office. The CFO was one of few Mordhaus occupants consistently awake in the early hours, and did not seem to mind Nathan's company. He began to mind it even less after the time that Nathan made him shrug out of his jacket and began giving him an impromptu shoulder massage. It had been one of the few things in high school Nathan had known he was made for; large, strong, slightly calloused hands kneaded flesh pulled taut over muscle, and Charles had moaned in spite of himself, his pen clattering against the desk as it fell from between his fingers.

Nathan begins prowling past Charles' office like a large, agitated cat. He keeps waiting to pass by to find his manager engrossed in paperwork, like nothing's changed. He can even imagine Charles looking up, head slightly cocked, meeting his gaze with the barest hint of a smile before inviting him in. Nathan passes by the open door multiple times a night, waiting for acknowledgment that never comes.

*

When he awakens, all is pain. His eyes are overly sensitive to light; his limbs feel like there are cement blocks attached to the ends; the scar along his cheek throbs. Faintly, he understands where he is, what's happened to him; it's a contingency plan he's had availed to him for quite some time.

When he's been pumped full of pain management substances and his facial reconstruction has fully set, he begins to take daily walks around the compound. He gets headaches easily, but vertigo aside, it's a good way to gain back his strength.

Eventually, he has a visitor. "You're healing," Selactia rasps with satisfaction. He touches the keloid scar on Charles' cheek briefly; Charles tries not to flinch, but fails. "Good."

Charles isn't wearing his glasses yet. He rubs his eyes. "How are they?" he asks. He hasn't talked much since he's been here, and his mouth is dry.

Selactia's smile is thin. "They are alive. They are learning to cope." He seems to be watching Charles carefully for his reaction. Almost in defiance, Charles juts his chin out.

"Good."

*

Nobody's ever taught them how to cope with things like 'normal' people. It's been a while since they've been regular jag-offs; they've become set in their ways, however dysfunctional. Pickles does more drugs; Toki and Skwisgaar become quieter, more moody. Murderface has always been moody, and continues to be so.

For a while, Nathan tries to assume a somewhat hybrid role of band leader and band manager. Nobody specifically tells him that he has to, and nobody seems to notice all that much of a change. To be honest, Nathan doesn't either, at first. Band managing is just making decisions about things the band would probably figure out how to do anyway, he decides.

One day, Toki shows them all a discussion thread on some Dethklok fan message board regarding the fact that they're yet without a manager-lawyer, some four months after their old one has disappeared. Suddenly, it becomes apparent to all of them how painstakingly Nathan isn't Charles. It becomes nakedly apparent that Charles isn't with them anymore, and suddenly nothing is all right anymore.

"We can hire another manager," Pickles shrugs. They all nod, but nobody brings one home.

The majority of the early renovations on Mordhaus involve picking up debris more than they do bringing in anything new. Charles' office suffered minor destruction, and as such, it's one of the easiest things to fix; the room remains spotless and untouched for months after his departure, yet alien, like something isn't quite right.

One night, Nathan crosses the threshold. He spends an hour making minuscule arrangements to items on Charles' desk; he sits in the high-backed chair behind it, and drums his fingers on the high-polished wood. A couch stands in the corner, a silent witness. Nathan remembers how it felt kneeling deeply into one of its cushions, Charles thrown over the back of it, his tie fisted in one of Nathan's beefy hands. "You never use that couch," Nathan had told him matter-of-factly. Then he'd snickered when he came into the office a few days later to see Toki sitting, unwittingly on the soiled padding.

It's probably been cleaned. There are no longer hints that somebody occupies this space regularly. It's just a room. It's stifling. It's bullshit, Nathan decides. Angrily, he knocks a coaster off of the desk; then a small container of pens; then Charles' phone. Before long, the tantrum escalates into a full-on rage. Pictures are pulled from the walls and smashed; plants are overturned; the couch is all but decimated. When Nathan is finished, it's more because he's been zapped of the energy to do anything more than it is because he's remotely satisfied by any of it. "Fuck this," he mutters as he leaves the room. "Fuck you."

The next time he wanders by Charles' office, his mess has been cleaned up. Nobody says anything to him about it.

*

Selactia shows him the blue prints. His fingers trace over the lines and labels; he wears his glasses now, but off and on, until they become unbearable. He makes comments, critiques; Selactia doesn't write any of them down, but Charles knows they will be taken into account.

"Something troubles you." It is not a question; Selactia doesn't need to ask questions. A cruel smile plays at the corners of his mouth; "Your thoughts betray you."

Charles takes a breath. "I want to go back," he says, his voice remarkably steady. "They need me."

"It is not time," Selactia says flatly. His eyes bore into Charles', into his soul. "You have begun to care too much," he adds after a moment, his voice yet tinged with sickly satisfaction. The mind probing continues, despite Charles' best - he's still relatively weakened - efforts to avoid it. "Especially ... the leader-"

"I can still do what needs to be done," Charles says simply. "You know that."

Selactia releases him. "We wait," he says simply.

*

Some days, he can barely make it out of bed. Skwisgaar and Murderface tease him about being hungover, but Nathan isn't really imbibing any more alcohol than usual. Sometimes, he decides, it's just easier to succumb to sleep.

Then one day, he just snaps out of it. Nobody's more surprised than he is, but suddenly they're talking tour dates and interior design. They're still not really handling anything, more like diverting attention onto other things, but it feels better. Sometimes. Occasionally. Sometimes thinking about other things turns into thinking about him. It's a dull ache at this point, punctuated by bursts of bright agony. Sometimes, he finds himself trying to have conversations with someone who isn't there, a tossed off, "This would be good, yeah?" Probably it would be better if were drinking a lot. At least, he thinks, he could use that as an excuse.

*

Balls to the wall, Charles has to admit that he enjoys surprising people. The look on everyone's face when he walks through Damien's door is all the proof he needs that he was missed. Even the Klokateers are reverent towards him; several of them bow when he passes by, and he can swear he hears one sniffle.

Nathan is the most suspicious. Charles expects as much; he carefully responds to the front man's questions with his usual, well-practiced detachment. He isn't sure whether Nathan knows it's all bullshit at this point.

Before he left, Selactia had stared him down. "Be cautious," he'd warned. "You have lost your objectivity. You know you will have to let him go eventually." The wording is intentional, and Charles has the grace to flush.

"I know."

His office is colder than he remembers. He stares around at the elegantly understated decor, taking in the other changes. His favorite is the new chair. He grins a little as he spins in a slow semi-circle behind his desk, testing it.

He hears Nathan plodding towards his open door, several paces before he arrives. The last few steps seem more focused, hesitant. His face is an indescribable array of emotions when Charles waves him in.

"I uh." Nathan clears his throat and shuffles a little. "Your office. I uh. I trashed it. When you were gone." His face is recalcitrant and a bit sulky. "Sorry."

"It's all right, Nathan." Simultaneously, their eyes flit towards a tell-tale corner of the room.

"You never use that couch," Nathan breathes. He takes a step towards the desk, towards Charles, towards the future. His eyes flicker as he watches Charles remove his jacket. "Leave the tie," he orders, and moves forward to loop it around his hand. "I like it."

"I know," Charles replies. He knows.


End file.
